


Stealing a Princess

by sunkelles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe- Wildlings, Consent Issues, F/F, Femslash, Lesbian Sansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 07:46:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3720874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkelles/pseuds/sunkelles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa grows up North of the Wall. She is entranced by her mother’s stories of Southron ladies and knights and princesses. When the royal party is at Deepwood Motte, she, Robb, and Arya travel there so she can at least get a glimpse of the people from her stories. Sansa steals Princess Daenerys because she’s gorgeous and amazing. Dany, who is betrothed to a lord, is surprisingly okay with the situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stealing a Princess

**Author's Note:**

> Actual plot note: 
> 
> Okay a few warnings here. This is a Wildling/Free Folk au, and that means that it deals within their culture. There are a shit ton of consent issues in anything having to do with the culture of the free folk. 
> 
> Like there is nothing even close to explicit rape or even consensual sex in this fic, but the implications are there, especially in the heterosexual pairings like Ned and Cat. Even the Sansa and Dany has consent issues. Like not really major ones, but they do exist. 
> 
> I thought that I should warn you guys of this, just in case.

The world Beyond the Wall is a cold, bleak place, or at least that’s what Sansa’s mother tells her. Her mother is a highborn lady from South of the Wall with a fancy last name: Tully. She’s a woman of the free folk now, but Sansa knows that her mother hasn’t completely given up on that life she left behind. If she had, Sansa knows she wouldn’t be so intent on telling her stories. But Sansa doesn’t mind. She loves her mother's stories, and her mother loves telling them to her only child who is inclined to listen.

* * *

 

 

Sansa curls up against her mother in the furs.

“Tell me a story,” Sansa says, “something with princesses and knights.” Her mother smiles wistfully.

“Once there was a lovely highborn maid from the Riverlands,” Catelyn tells her, “and she was betrothed to a handsome Northern lord.”

“Her father’s ward didn’t like this,” she says, “and he challenged the noble lord for the maid’s hand. He was little and lowborn, and no one expected him to be able to beat the maid’s betrothed.”

“Did he win?” Sansa asks.

“No,” Catelyn says, “the lord almost killed him, before the maid begged for the boy’s life.”

“Did she love him?” Sansa asks.

“Yes,” she says, “like a brother.”

“Did she love the man that she was to marry?” Sansa asks hopefully.

“No,” her mother replies, “not really.”

“That’s not very happy,” Sansa mumbles, curling into her mother’s arms.

She laughs a bit, and says, “I suppose it isn’t.”

“I thought that all of your stories had happy endings,” Sansa protests, sounding slightly petulant.

“They can’t all have happy endings,” her mother tells her, “then you’d get bored.” Sansa doesn’t argue this time, only nuzzles deeper into the furs.

* * *

 

 

She’s raised on tales of gallant knights and lovely princesses as she learns to ride and fight. The world of Southron chivalry and her mother’s songs is nothing but a fantasyland to her; Riverrun and King’s Landing are no more real places than grumkins are real beasts. But they fascinate her, and as she grows up _The Seasons of My Love_ and _Alysanne_ become as familiar to her as _The Last of the Giants_.

* * *

 

 

Sansa fights off every man that tries to steal her. She isn’t as quick as Arya or as strong as Robb, but her determination gives her strength. She doesn’t even _like_ men. She won’t let one of them steal her. Waiting for the right girl, however, is a bigger problem.

* * *

 

 

She is nearly eighteen years old when she hears the greatness news of her life.

“The royal party is to arrive in Deepwood Motte in four days’ time,” Robb tells her with a grin on his face, and Sansa understands exactly what he’s telling her. They’re going to ride South, and she’ll be able to see the royal party. She’ll be able to see her gallant knights and gorgeous princesses, and maybe even steal a Southron lady for herself. She has to admit that the idea appeals to her.

“Robb,” she says, excitement lighting her tone like a candle. Sansa knows that Robb organized this particular raid solely so that his younger sister could catch at least a glimpse of her Southron stories. She has never loved him more than in that moment. She crushes him in an hug, and Robb lets out a grunt.

“I didn’t do it for you,” he mumbles, but Sansa just laughs. She knows that he did.  


* * *

 

 

She, Robb and Arya leave on a chilly spring morning and travel three days before spotting the Wall. Jon opts out of their trek South, citing “clan duties” and “other stuff” meaning, of course, that he and Ygritte are going to fuck in a cave until someone drags them out.

* * *

 

 

It is easy enough for Sansa to pass as a traveling singer. Her mother taught her to play the lute, and she knows all the Southron songs and has a passable singing voice. She knows that it is strange for singers to travel this far North, but people, Southerners especially, see what they want to see. The new-made lord of Deepwood Motte does not seem especially pleased by her presence, but he allows her to sing. She supposes that is enough.

 

She sings _The Seasons of My Love, Alysanne, By the Riverside,_ and _The Last of the Giants_ before she takes her leave.

 

Then, Sansa sees her: the princess of the Seven Kingdoms. Her hair is silver-blonde against her lavender gown.

“The Targaryens have an almost otherworldly sort of beauty,” her mother had told her, “silvery hair, and purple eyes.” She is the most gorgeous woman Sansa has ever seen, by a longshot. She looks every bit the fairytale princess. Sansa is struck immediately by her beauty. The man her king-brother seems intent on giving her hand to, however, is not. He does not seem to notice that Daenerys exists.

The lordless castle and the husbandless princess are to be awarded to a man that helped her brother-king put down a revolution oh so long ago.

The man, who looks all the proper knight from her mother’s stories, does not seem interested in the beautiful princess. Sansa is enraged by this. How could anyone not give the wonderful woman the love and attention she deserves? Sansa sighs, rises from her place, and walks towards the princess.   


 

“Y’Grace,” Sansa says, remembering the form of address her mother always used.

It takes the girl a moment to realize that Sansa has spoken to her.

“Yes,” she says, bemused as much as anything. Sansa looks about for a moment, wondering how to begin a conversation. Daenerys does it for her.

“I enjoyed your performance,” she says.

“You did?” Sansa asks.

“Yes,” the woman says, “we don’t hear from many women singers, and it was a nice change of pace.” Sansa has never had her mother’s manners. She might have been a great lady, had she been raised South of the Wall, but she wasn’t. Sansa is a free woman, and blunter than a sword with no whetstone.

“Do you want to marry him?” Sansa blurts out.

“No,” the other girl says softly. And then Sansa gets a stupid, reckless idea.

“Would you like to take a walk with me?” Sansa asks. The girl looks at her incredulously .

“You want me to take a walk with you,” the girl says, and the she pauses, “at night. In the woods?” Sansa just nods at her, and to her surprise, the girl laughs.

“Alright,” she says, turning to Sansa, “Let’s take a walk.” The night air is a bit chilly, but Sansa has survived winters Beyond the Wall. A chilly summer’s night is nothing to her.

“I can’t believe that I’m to be wed to that man,” Daenerys admits to her, “he hasn’t even _pretended_ to like me. I’m a bit insulted.” Sansa chuckles a bit, though the princess’s words aren’t funny. They’re just sad. Sansa knows that she can remedy this a bit, at least.

“He’s an idiot,” Sansa says, “I just met you, and I already like you.” The other girl rolls her eyes.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she says.

“Flattery?” Sansa asks in confusion, “what do you mean?” She likes to think that she’s fluent in the common tongue, but sometimes Southron words slip past her, especially words that they have no use for in the North.

“Your false compliments won’t get you anywhere with the king,” she says, “my brother doesn’t care much for me. He’s sent me to the other end of the country to wed.”

“I would never fake a compliment,” Sansa says, “ _I_ happen to find you likeable.” _And pretty, and wonderful, and exactly what I’m looking for in a wife,_ Sansa thinks, but she does not say these things aloud.

“You’d be the first,” Daenerys tells her with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Sansa wants nothing more than to punch the people who have made her feel this way in the face. The forest is dark and the trees seem to stretch on forever. If Sansa did not know her way around forests, she suspects that she’d be quite lost. She suspects that Daenerys is. She feels that will work to her advantage.

 

Sansa listens to the other girl speak of her childhood and her marital fear as they creep deeper into the forest, closer to where Sansa knows that her horses and siblings wait.

“How far are we planning on walking?” the other girl asks her.

“Just a bit farther,” Sansa says, and it’s not exactly a lie. She only plans to walk a few more minutes. They’ll travel by horseback for the rest of their  journey. It’s only a minute longer before Sansa spots her siblings, and breathes a sigh of relief. She’s not sure how much longer Daenerys would have followed her willingly into the woods. She is capable of carrying the other girl, but she’d prefer not to. Daenerys brushes a cautious hand against hers, and something ignites within Sansa.

“Who are they?” Daenerys asks her, urgency in her tone. Sansa sighs and Robb laughs.

“Found yourself a girl?” he asks, and Sansa tries not to blush but does not succeed.

“A little help?” she asks, and Robb just keeps laughing.

“ _Wildlings_ ,” Dany says, and her eyes look like purple moons. Sansa draws her sword and knocks Dany over the head with it. The princess falls to the ground in an inelegant heap.

“You’re such a craven,” Arya mutters, and then Sansa glares at her.

“I’m _smart,”_ Sansa says, “I don’t want to have this conversation until we are safely _past_ the Wall.”

“Now we’ll be dragging your dead-weight girl all the way back with us,” Arya says.

“Dead-weight _princess_ ,” Sansa corrects. Robb just rolls his eyes, and Sansa can’t stop herself from grinning. She’s stolen Daenerys, and now, she’s taking her North of the Wall. She can deal with the ramifications _later._

* * *

 

They set up camp the next night within sight of the Wall. It looks like an incredibly large snake on the horizon. They build a fire quickly enough, and Arya hunts down a few rabbits. They sit down to eat, and Daenerys remains an unconscious heap on the furs.

“So what were they like?” Arya asks.

“Who?” Sansa asks.

“Kneelers,” Robb snorts, “what were they like? How much groveling was there?”

“Not all that much, really,” Sansa says, “it was more lords puffing their chests out and demanding respect because they had a fancy title.” Arya snorts as she tosses a rabbit bone into the flame.

“Kneelers are so stupid,” Arya says, “women can’t fight, men get to lead just because of who their fathers are?”

“I’d never follow a man that never proved himself,” Robb tells her, “nobody follows dad because of who his dad was.”  Sansa feels that way too, but she wonders if she’d feel the same way had she been born on the other side of the Wall.

“Remember when you used to say that you’d be princess o’ the Seven Kingdoms?” Robb asks, and Sansa blushes a little bit.

“I think I found something better,” She says, inclining her head towards Daenerys. 

“I can’t believe you stole their bloody _princess,”_ Arya tells her with a bit of respect in her voice.

“I dream big,” Sansa tells her with a little smirk. They keep talking for a while, making jibes about sex and shit and just about everything that becomes increasingly funny when one is running on far too little sleep.

 

Daenerys stirs on her furs, and when her eyes meet Sansa’s again, she lets out a groan. Sansa supposes that it’s better than the scream.

“I was wondering when you’d wake up,” Sansa says, with a cheeky little smile.

“We’ll give you two some privacy,” Arya says with a little smirk, and Robb fucking winks at her as they move their furs somewhere else to finally get some much needed sleep.

“Where are we?” Daenerys demands.

“A bit South of the Wall,” Sansa tells her.

“Why did you bring me here?” the woman hisses.

Sansa thinks on this for a moment as she tries to figure out a way to answer this that won’t set the other girl into a vicious rage.

“You were so sad and beautiful,” she says, “and your betrothed didn’t seem to notice that you were there. I thought that you’d be happier.” It’s only a bit of a lie. Thinking back on it, Sansa can see all those reasons being relevant. But the main reason that she stole Dany is because she wonderful and gorgeous and Sansa _wanted_ her. She’s a free woman, after all, and free people take what they want. She suspects that the princess wouldn’t like that explanation as well, though.

“You’re telling me that you knocked me unconscious, and dragged me halfway through the North to make me happy?” Dany asks incredulously, almost angrily.

“Yes,” she says. Dany lets out a groan, and turns away from Sansa. She stares directly into the fire. Sansa does not ask how she does this without burning her eyes; she remembers her mother saying something about Targaryens and flames.

“What will you do if I run?” Daenerys asks. Sansa doesn’t respond immediately, mainly because she doesn’t know what to say. She hasn’t really considered this possibility.

“I wouldn’t try to stop you,” Sansa decides.

“You dragged me nearly to the Wall,” Dany asks, “and you’d just let me go?”

“I guess so,” Sansa says. She hadn’t really considered the other girl _wanting_ to leave. She seemed so discontented at the feast.

“If I left right now,” Dany says, looking her straight in the eyes, “What would you do?”

“I’d try to talk you out of it,” Sansa tells her with a little smile on her face, “you’d like as not freeze to death.” Dany does not look amused.

“Would you let me die?” she asks.

“No,” Sansa tells her.

“But if I told you that I wanted to leave,” Dany says, serious as the grave, "what would you do? If I told you that I’d leave no matter what, and freeze to death if I had to?”

Sansa’s throat constricts at the thought, but she knows the answer almost immediately. If she were to either give Dany up or watch her die, she’d give her up in a heartbeat.

“I’d take you back to Deepwood Motte,” she says, “and never bother you again.” Daenerys turns away from her, and looks back into the flames. Sansa sits in silence for a moment, before she gathers up the courage to ask the question that's grating on her.

“Do you want me to set you free?” Sansa asks seriously.

The girl doesn’t respond for a long while, and when she does, her voice is soft as she responds, “No.” Sansa’s heart lights up a bit at that, but she doesn’t say anything in response. She doesn’t want to ruin the moment.

 

The moment goes on for a long time, and Sansa has curled back up into her furs and considered putting the fire out before Daenerys speaks again.

“Why did you want _me?”_ she asks, as if someone actually wanting her is some sort of foreign concept. Sansa desperately hopes that it isn’t.

“You’re the most beautiful girl that I’ve ever met,” Sansa says, “and once I started talking to you, it was so easy. It felt really, really _right._ I knew that it had to be you.”

“That’s almost sweet,” Daenerys drawls. She’s shivering almost violently, so it loses a lot of the intended effect.

“It’s sweeter than what your husband-to-be had to say, Daenerys,” Sansa says.

“Don’t call me that,” she says, “my full name is so formal.”

“What would you have me call you?” Sansa asks.

“I’d have you call me Dany,” she says, only a little reluctantly.

“Dany,” Sansa says, “I like it.” She tries to wrap the furs tighter around her, but it obviously isn’t working. She's used to Southron winters, which are warmer than Northern summer nights. Sansa closes the gap between them, and drapes the rest of her furs over Dany as well.

“Thanks,” Dany mutters. Sansa considers going to put out the fire, but decides against it. The odds of them all burning to death are less likely than them all freezing to death if she puts it out. The other girl adjusts herself beside Sansa, and for a moment their hands touch.

Sansa, for one, could get used to this. She hopes that one day, Dany will be able to as well.


End file.
